Broken Halves
by YoungBoho
Summary: Roger tears Mark's scarf... MR Friendship flangst


**Disclaimer**: It's not mine. Thank you Jonathan Larson.

**Author's Note**: In honor of Anthony and Adam returning to Rent this summer, and in celebration of the fact that I managed to get tickets, I decided to whip up this Mark/Roger friendship fic that I finally have the time to write.

**Broken Halves**

**Summary**: Withdrawal sends Roger into an emotional fit, causing him to tear Mark's scarf… Mark/Rog friendship, flangst

Mark could only watch helplessly as his roommate became a pawn for withdrawal. The sickness toyed with his emotions and his body changing him from a screaming infant with no control of his bodily functions into a wild lunatic with enough strength to satisfy eight men. Being in the same room as him was dangerous– every little thing could set Roger off.

Mark did his best to keep him comfortable, but Roger's once docile manner had become wildly unpredictable. He would have much preferred acting as if Roger didn't exist if it weren't for the thin walls, which allowed the pathetic whimpers and moans to echo throughout the apartment. They were impossible to ignore.

Each time Roger yelled or got sick Mark felt the walls press in a little closer around him. It was too dense inside the loft. Mark could not escape; he was forced to experience Roger's withdrawal firsthand, as if it were his own. Everyone else had run away, leaving him to take care of the suffering musician, and he hated it. Mark had nowhere to run to and was left to clean up the mess.

The rare opportunities that arose to collect footage were the only thing keeping him sane. Mark took advantage of every opportunity that presented itself to get out into the city. Once he was sure that Roger was safely locked inside his bedroom, he escaped out into the grimy East Village streets. When he was outside he was a man with a life and a purpose, as opposed to a cringing wet nurse that had no idea what the hell he was doing.

"Roger?" Mark called softly, tapping on his roommate's door, trying to gauge what kind of mood he was in. He had spent the last half hour holding a can of soup over their wood burning stove in an attempt to make dinner for "the creature."

The only response to Mark's presence was something between a whimper and a growl leaving him with nothing to determine his state of mind. Bracing himself for the worst, Mark tightened the scarf that was tightly around his neck to preserve the little body heat he had left, and entered the room with the lukewarm soup. It was his responsibility to make sure that Roger ate and took his meds.

"Roger it's me," he said making sure to speak quietly. The man who once screamed into a microphone amidst a torrent of guitars, bass and drums now burst into tears at any sound louder than a whisper. "I made you some soup. It's kind of thin, hopefully you'll be able to keep it down,"

Gathering his courage, Mark pushed the door open with his foot and stepped inside. Roger barely moved except to turn away. He refused to take offense to the rude gesture. Life had been this way ever since April died. Roger refused to do anything but wallow unless it was to yell at Mark or to spew the latest contents of his stomach across the freshly cleaned sheets Mark had just laid across his dirty mattress. He had lost all interest in the people and hobbies that had controlled his life for years.

Roger was sitting on his bed starring blankly at the filthy window, his clothes billowing around his shrunken frame. Mark approached slowly with the soup in hand, coming to a halt in front of the musician.

After it became clear that Mark wasn't going to leave until he had received some sort of acknowledgment, Roger reluctantly shifted his gaze. Black smears surrounded emerald green eyes making them appear more piercing and vibrant than ever.

"When was the last time you slept?" Those smudges were definitely not makeup.

Roger simply shrugged and returned to his absent starring.

"Here," Mark said. "I managed to scrounge up enough money for some chicken noodle,"

Tentatively sitting down next to his roommate, Mark held out the soup waiting for Roger to take it. The musician made no move to accept the food that he had slaved over, he merely watched warily, still refusing to speak.

_Stubborn asshole_

"Hurry before it gets cold," Mark said pushing the bowl into a pair of frigid hands, wincing at how much he sounded like his mother.

Roger's gaze moved to the piss-colored liquid decorated with the few pathetic vegetables floating amongst the equally sad chunks of meat. Finally, a trembling hand grasped the spoon and raised the nourishment to his lips.

What could only be described as some sort of spell seemed to take over the instant the soup entered Roger's system. He hadn't been able to touch food for days without spewing it across the room before it had time to digest, and now he was eating with the same reckless abandon he used to chase girls. It wasn't long until the spoon was forgotten and Roger simply lifted the bowl to his chapped lips, taking care that he sucked down every last drop.

Mark watched, taking the scene in. A sudden feeling of pride grew in his chest. Roger was eating. That had to be a good sign. For the first time since April's death, Mark allowed himself to see the light at the end of the tunnel. He had gotten Roger this far, he had brought him through the worst of withdrawal. Thanks to him, they were going to get through this.

He sat there, a huge grin smeared across his face, drinking in the sight of Roger drinking in the soup.

"What?" Roger asked, speaking for the first time since Mark sat down, taking time out of his dinner to wipe his dirty sleeve across his mouth.

"You have your appetite back," he replied, unable to hide his stupid grin.

"Yeah I guess," Roger said. "For now anyways,"

"Are you feeling better?" Mark pushed. Roger seemed in a better mood than usual and would perhaps enjoy participating in an actual conversation.

The look Roger sent him was hot enough to burn. Mark could feel a searing heat, but was unable to decide whether it was from Roger's expression or his own shame.

It was all too easy to forget just what his roommate was putting himself through. Roger wasn't just trapped in the throes of withdrawal. He also had his girlfriend's suicide and his own impending death to deal with all while being druged through weeks of some of the most unimaginable agony. Why Roger chose to give up drugs two days after April died will always be a mystery.

Mark was sitting next to his roommate, lost in thought and fiddling with the ends of his scarf, when Roger shattered the fragile silence.

"What is with you and that thing?"

Roger's voice startled Mark back into reality, the shock of him initiating a conversation almost kept Mark from responding. Roger never voluntarily offered any dialogue. He usually just shook or nodded his head regardless of whether or not it was a yes or no question.

"What's with what?" Mark said, shaking himself out of his current state of awe.

"That," he said, indicating his scarf.

"What about it?"

"I never see you without it,"

"Yeah well, I like it,"

"Why?"

"I don't know, I've just had it since I was fourteen. My Grandma gave it to me,"

"Were you guys close?" Roger asked between gulps.

"Yeah, we were. She was closer to me than my parents ever were,"

"Really?"

"She just got me, you know? I never had to explain anything to her. My parents kept pushing me to do business and accounting, but she never did. When I told her I wanted to move to New York and be a filmmaker she gave me my Grandpa's old camera," Mark's voice grew quiet. "She died a few months after she gave me this," he said referring to the blue and white fabric wound around his neck.

Mark had no idea why he had suddenly dumped this sob story into Roger's lap. He had only known him for little more than a month for Christ's sake.

Until now, all he had needed was his scarf or the camera. They were always enough. He had never had the desire to talk about his grandmother. It was easier to just remember her by himself.

"I never had anyone like that," Roger said, bringing all of the attention back to himself. "I never knew my grandparents and my parents were both selfish assholes,"

Mark didn't know how to respond and just decided to remain silent.

"They were always too caught up in fighting and drinking and partying all the time to worry about me," he continued.

"Sometimes I wish my life was like that. I was the center of my parents' lives. Everything always came down to me and my career. I would have loved to just slip under the radar,"

"Yeah it really is great being able to take care of myself since I was five," Roger said, with the familiar angry flames reflecting in his enraged irises.

"I–"

"It was awesome walking three miles through the city to get to school on the first day of 2nd grade while both of my parents were off searching for the next high,"

Roger's temper was growing at an alarming rate, leaving Mark at his mercy. He scrambled to find anything to keep his anger from fully erupting and was failing miserably.

"Roger I–"

"What about having to throw yourself between your step-dad and your mother to keep him from beating her to death," Tears of rage had suddenly appeared in Roger's bloodshot eyes.

Having no idea what to say to calm him, Mark remained silent, awkwardly twiddling with his scarf to keep from making any more eye contact and further enraging his roommate.

"Yeah Mark, your life must have been so fucking tough back in Scarsdale, where your parents gave you everything you could ever want and made you the center of their lives," he was pacing back and forth in from of Mark, his eyes wide and wild. Wasting their money on an education you were too good for really was a horrible thing for them to do. What kind of parents want their kids to have a good life? You want to know how long I was in school Mark?" Roger yelled. "Do you!?"

Mark kept his head down, acting as submissive as possible, his hands diving into the scarf's comforting texture. The truth in Roger's words was to painful to accept, or even confront.

"I was in school for three fucking years before I left," Roger had stopped pacing and was now standing over Mark, flecks of yellow spit were flying from his foaming mouth.

Mark couldn't take any more confrontation and stood up to leave, angry at himself for getting his hopes up that the worst was over, but Roger roughly pushed him back down onto the bed.

"You have no fucking clue how good your god damn life was. You're just another one of those yuppie bastards that thinks the world owes them something," Roger screamed. "So your parent's didn't understand you –big fucking deal! At least they cared enough to make an effort!" He was inches from Mark's face now. "And your Grandma– "

"Shut up," Mark said, finally standing up for himself. No one, no matter how much pain they were in had the right to talk about his grandmother, ever.

"What's the matter Markie, is the truth too much to handle?"

"_Shut up_,"

"No, I want you to hear this," Roger said smiling sadistically.

Once again, Mark stood up to leave and resisted when Roger attempted to once again push him back down. He pressed past his roommate and headed for the door when the pressure around his neck grew considerably.

His lungs immediately began to scream for oxygen, as Mark felt himself being yanked back towards the bed by Roger who had fastened onto one end of his scarf.

"Sit down, I'm not done!"

Mark ignored the command and continued to resist, trying to pull his way out of Roger's grasp. The grip on the other end of the scarf only strengthened, causing the pressure around his throat to grow even more.

Ignoring the spots dancing in front of his eyes, Mark planted his feet and stood his ground. He wasn't going to give in to Roger, he wouldn't sacrifice his dignity so that his roommate may have a few pleasurable minutes of sadistic fun. He refused.

The pain had spread from his neck and lungs to his entire body from the lack of oxygen, and still he wasn't giving any ground. Roger increased the pressure even more on the scarf, causing the world to grow even darker in front of Mark's eyes.

Both men stood there for several minutes playing a mutated game of tug of war until the sounds of threads tearing ripped through the strained silence.

Suddenly Mark was on the ground and oxygen was searing through his sore lungs. He lay there gasping for several seconds, counting the number of breaths that tore through his lungs, discovering a newfound appreciation for the ability to breathe. His head was pounding as he attempted to figure out what was going on.

It didn't take long.

Lying a few feet in front of him was half of the blue and white scarf that he had carried with him for so long. The other half was still tightly wound around his neck. Roger was silent, starring open mouth at the two scraps of fabric. Both men were starring in disbelief, until Mark climbed up off of the floor and left the room without looking at his roommate, allowing the rest of his scarf to flutter to the ground behind him.

There were so many emotions flooding his system that the only one he allowed himself to register was confusion. Mark had clung onto to that scarf for years. It had become a part of him, defined him. The scarf was more a part of him than his fingers or his ears.

Mark had had the scarf for so long that it had become almost like a direct connection to his grandmother. He was able to find the same comfort in its patterns and texture than he did from her logic and understanding.

After wandering into the living room Mark sat down in the center of the ruined sofa, pressing his face into his palms. He felt naked and exposed without the comforting pressure of the soft material warming his neck.

He sat there in silence for an indeterminable amount of time, allowing the anger to build. The rage and hate was quickly and easily directed at Roger. He was the one responsible for taking Mark's life away from him. It was because of him that he could never leave the loft for more than a few minutes at a time. He was the reason Mark was freezing to death and locked in a constant battle with hunger. Everything he had always had to go straight to Roger. His whole life had become centered around caring for this almost-stranger that he happened to live with.

Deep down, Mark knew that he was over reacting. He should understand that Roger wasn't in his right mind, that pain and sickness were still dictating his actions, but he didn't care. The scarf had represented the few things from his life at home that he loved and now it was destroyed.

Mark was done.

He had pushed himself far past the limits during his brief stay in the city, and it was time to go back home. He just couldn't do it anymore.

Roger's bedroom door suddenly flung open and the musician stormed out into the living area of the apartment, heading straight for his guitar, making sure to avoid Mark's eyes. He moved with the reminiscent grace of his previous glory days, moving through the clutter with natural feline agility.

Roger picked up the dusty instrument and, without hesitation, ripped off one of its strings with a quick, strong, jerk of his arm. Clutching the string, he quickly retreated back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him so Mark would know that he was not welcome– not that he was planning another social call.

Mark didn't care what the hell Roger was doing now, he just wanted to get out. Without a word to Roger or a plan, he threw open the first suitcase he found and began throwing his belongings inside.

Roger was on his own.

After a few minutes of packing, Roger reemerged from his room, coming to a stop in front of Mark.

"What are you doing?"

"Packing," Mark said without looking up.

"Why?"

"I'm leaving,"

"Oh," Even from the corner of his eye, Mark could see Roger's face fall. "Because of me?"

"It's everything," Mark replied, wishing he had the strength to hurt Roger as much as he had hurt him.

"Oh, well… here," Roger said holding his arm out.

In his hand he held Mark's scarf, both pieces reattached.

Mark starred open mouthed for several seconds before gingerly taking the material and inspecting it. His hands lovingly caressed the material, investigating the lumpy, uneven seam connecting the two torn pieces.

"Sorry," Roger said when he saw Mark examining his handiwork. "I didn't have any thread,"

It was then that Mark realized that Roger had sacrificed his guitar in order to sew the scarf back together.

"You didn't have to do this," Mark whispered while his fingers rejoiced in the comforting presence of the scarf's fabric.

"Yeah Mark, I did," Roger said. "I lost it, and I'm sorry,"

"It's okay, I get it,"

"I'm just so fucking frustrated with everything-"

Mark interrupted his roommate by turning and pulling him into a tight embrace. Roger latched on immediately, pulling Mark close and burying his face in the crook of his shoulder.

For the first time since the day of April's death, Roger opened up and wept. He pressed Mark against him and allowed the pain to fall from his eyes. Mark held him just as tightly, trying to give him as much comfort as he could provide.

"I don't want you to go," Roger muttered into his neck.

Mark didn't hesitate in his reply. "I won't, I'm going to stay here with you,"

All thoughts of the scarf were forgotten as the two men stood there embracing. Mark was surprised to find the same warmth and comfort in Roger as he did in his scarf, and for the first time in his life he felt like he was home. Mark was finally where he needed to be.

"I'm not going anywhere Roger,"

**Reviews are Love!**


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